Bringing the Boy Home

by N. A. Nelson

  Nothing had better happen to her.

  The rain has slowed to a mist and I hug my knees for warmth, staring without blinking into the flames. Forms dance in the flickering embers—a parakeet, a lizard, giant ants marching. I watch the dance until my eyes get so dry, I have to close them. It feels so good that I decide to keep them shut awhile longer, only for a short time. Just a few minutes.

  I wake up cold and shivering. A light drizzle continues to fall and all around me the forest is dark. My fire is dead. Jumping up, I grab the smallest twigs and bark from my woodpile. When I blow on the gray ashes, I’m relieved to see a flicker of red blink back. I coax it with tiny pieces of dead fern, stoking the flames to life. Dumb, dumb, dumb! How could I have fallen asleep? The chill from the ground has seeped into my bones. I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering and crouch by the slowly recovering fire.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I listen for the jaguar. Her steady breathing assures me she hasn’t moved.

  The moon shines through the gap where the burning palm once stood. My senses sound a warning: I’m being watched. Turning, I peer into the darkness.

  SOMETHING IS THERE. My father’s voice pushes into my thoughts. He is back.

  I promised myself not to take his help. Go away, I think. I don’t need you here.

  LOOK…LISTEN…SMELL. His voice is filled with urgency.

  I know what to do. I don’t need him to tell me.

  THIS IS NO TRICK. HE WILL KILL YOU.

  I reach for the burning poker I propped between my feet earlier. It has burned down to the size of a cigar, so I throw it back and grab the top piece of wood from my stash. Rotten, it breaks in two. I seize another stick and spin around, searching the jungle.

  I sniff. There is no wind, but the rain makes every scent easy to pick up. Whatever is approaching is not human. It’s an animal. A big animal. Another jaguar—a male. I circle the fire, hoping to keep it between myself and the cat.

  “Yeow!” The female is awake and running toward me, but the male is closer. I pick up the vibrations from his vocal cords before they even become a sound. They form a growl so low and deep, it enters my body through my feet.

  “Yeow!” The female howls again. She is running at full tilt.

  I DON’T KNOW WHO HE IS. THE CAT IS NOT A TAKUNAMI SHAMAN.

  My mind is reeling.

  HE WANTS YOU. STAY CLOSE TO THE FIRE. STIR IT. YOU WILL SEE HIS EYES.

  I didn’t ask you, I shoot back angrily, rotating around the fire and stirring up the flames. I would have done this anyway.

  I can feel the animal…behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see two glaring eyes. The cat is watching my every move.

  A flash of lightning illuminates the forest. I stop breathing. Crouched ten feet away from me is a black jaguar as big as two grown men.

  Frozen, I watch the male jaguar stride forward.

  “Go away!” I wave my stick. “Get out of here!”

  The animal stalks toward me, oblivious to the flames. Fat raindrops land on my head and arms as I back around the fire. The storm is not over.

  Lightning. Thunder. I see a brown and black mottled shape fly though the air. The female jaguar. And then I run. Looking back, I see them rolling around the fire, jaws snapping to reach that soft spot on the neck that will end it.

  The sky opens into a downpour.

  THE TRAIL SPLITS AHEAD. TAKE THE PATH THAT VEERS RIGHT.

  I see the fork he’s talking about.

  IT’S THE LONGER PATH TO THE VILLAGE, BUT IT’LL BE EASIER FOR YOUR FOOT, my father continues. CAN YOU MAKE IT, SON?

  Son? My face burns at what he just said. How dare he call me Son. And why is he faking concern for me? After deciding I wasn’t strong enough to waste effort on seven years ago, he’s trying to make things easier for me now?

  TIRIO? My father’s voice sounds worried.

  Forget it, I think, narrowing my eyes and picking up my pace. Too little too late, Paho. And then without even slowing down—without even hesitating—I ignore him and go straight.

  LUKA

  12 Years, 364 Sunrises

  The Amazon

  The rain pounds the roof of our hut like an angry woman beating an old frond rug. I lie in my hammock and feel the thunder shake the ground. Usually I sleep my best during storms, but last night I couldn’t even close my eyes. Yesterday at the funeral, when Karara stopped singing, the Good Gods clapped their approval in the form of thunder and opened up the sky. The storms lasted all night, teasing us with short breaks before returning for a second, a third, a fourth time. Lightning illuminates the room and I see the shapes of Maha and Sulali in their hammocks.

  Thunder again, but this time it’s in the distance; the storm is retreating. I rise and open the door. Pausing, I leave it cracked and tiptoe to Sulali’s hammock. A braid has fallen across her cheek and I brush it away. She has not let anyone touch her hair since Karara left, and it now lies knotted and dirty across her pillow. Her father is dead and her sister is gone. If something happens to me, her only family left will be Maha, a woman who has never once played with her daughter. I can’t do that to Sulali. I hope the spirits don’t ask me to.

  Tukkita’s hut is located down a winding path, isolated from the village. It is where the shaman before Tukkita lived and where the next one will too. The next one—that will be Karara. If she ever comes home. I feel my sister’s presence as I walk up to the hut. I pray that she’s here. I need to talk to her—to apologize, to find out what our father was like, to convince her to resolve things with Maha. After the funeral, she disappeared into the crowd and I never had a chance.

  Sensing I’m outside his door, Tukkita pokes his head out and beckons me in. I step through the doorway.

  “Karara is not here,” the shaman says.

  I look at the ground.

  “You are early for our meeting,” he says, walking toward a table and turning his back to me.

  “I want to begin,” I explain, following him.

  He doesn’t respond, and I tiptoe around the fire to peek over his shoulder. On top of the table, I see a wooden bowl containing black powder and four short, hollow pieces of bamboo.

  Tukkita shoves some powder into one of the bamboo pieces.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Reaching down, he picks something up and slips it over my wrist. It’s a vine attached to the leg of the table. “You are about to see your future, Luka,” he says. I suck in my breath. Me? Someone my age is usually not allowed to perform this ritual.

  Sensing my hesitation, Tukkita stops packing the powder to explain. “When a boy’s father dies before he has completed his test, I turn to the spirit world for advice. I was unable to see anything except a vision of you. They want to speak to you.”

  After the bowl is empty, Tukkita separates the bamboo pieces into two sets. For the first time, I notice they are different sizes. “These are mine,” he says, pointing to the bigger ones. “These are yours.” He hands me a smaller one.

  “Put this inside your nose and take a deep breath,” he instructs. “When I’m sure you’ve done it correctly, then I will go. We will each go twice.”

  I shudder, remembering how Tukkita looks after doing this type of ritual—groaning and drooling and trembling as though he’s in terrible pain—but I nod and take the bamboo. I have no choice. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch one nostril shut and inhale quickly through the other before I can change my mind. Like powdered fire, the mixture explodes in my nose and then claws its way down the back of my throat.

  I hear Tukkita’s familiar wail and turn to focus on him. He’s doubled over, a large empty bamboo in his hand. “Go again,” he commands hoarsely.

  I lurch for the table. The room is spinning as I grab a piece of bamboo and quickly snort the contents. The second time, my nose burns as badly as the first. I gag as last night’s dinner rises into my throat and spit on the floor, but the acidic taste of the black powder remains. My body numbs and
I close my eyes. I feel as though I’m floating.

  A quietness surrounds me and I open my eyes to see my spirit drifting above my body. Tukkita is below me, shaking his head and holding the last bamboo piece. It’s one of the small ones and I realize what I did wrong.

  Within a few minutes, the shaman is soaring next to me. He grabs my hand roughly. “No more mistakes, Luka. Close your eyes.”

  My stomach rolls and my head pounds and I stare at the back of my eyelids. Nothing is happening and I pinch my eyes tighter. Finally, from the right corner of the blackness, I see myself emerge holding hands with a young girl. Her walk is graceful but tentative and she bows her head away from me. She grips a bouquet of orchids so tightly the juice from the stems drips down her wrist. We walk toward Tukkita and, although I cannot hear what he is saying, I recognize the mark of the gi-gi berry he is placing above our hearts. We are getting married.

  The scene fades to darkness and then opens to a picture of my wife washing clothes in the river. Her back is to me, but when she turns, I see she is clutching her stomach. I gasp. Her belly is round with child. The scenes flash by quickly, but I can tell by the change of day to night to day again, the birth was difficult. I see myself holding the baby, kissing him on the forehead and handing him back to his mother. Only then do I realize I still have not seen her face.

  My wife leans over our little boy as he learns to walk. He grips her thumbs with chubby fingers and tries to balance between her legs. They are both smiling as they inch across a dirt floor.

  Next, my son totters in the grass, moving away from my wife, who crouches nearby protectively. But something is wrong. My wife scoops him up and hugs him as someone approaches. It is Tukkita. He speaks to her as my son laughs and pulls her earrings. After Tukkita leaves, tears begin to flow down my wife’s cheeks. She buries her face in her hand and her shoulders shake. Our little boy also covers his face, and giggles.

  There is a crowd of children running. One falls behind. He is limping. He stops. It is my son. My wife appears from nowhere and scurries away with him.

  My wife hides behind a tree. She is listening to the shaman and me speak. She raises clenched fists to the sky.

  I wait for another picture. Tukkita releases my hand. “That is all. We are finished. Open your eyes.”

  But we are not finished.

  “Luka, open your eyes!” Tukkita yells from below. “Luka. Now. Open your eyes.” I hear him but do not listen. I am still floating, and another scene appears. I watch.

  The Amazon carries a canoe in its current. My child lies inside. A woman with white skin pulls the limp child from the boat. It is my son. He is dead. No…he reaches up and clutches her neck. He is alive.

  Blackness.

  “Luka!”

  I am standing on the dirt floor of the shaman’s hut.

  “What happened?” Tukkita is so close, his nose touches mine.

  My mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a sloth and I can barely pull my lips apart to ask for water. Tukkita hands me a cup.

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  “What did you see after I left?”

  Leaning against a wall, I try to keep my body from shaking. My head is pounding and I don’t know whether it is from the potion or from seeing my life play out in front of me.

  “Swirling colors. I was hoping there would be more, so I waited.”

  I quickly cover my face with the cup.

  “Was there anything more?”

  “No.” My voice is muffled by the wood.

  I can feel him glaring at me. “I am sure you have questions.”

  I finish the water and ask for more. Drinking slowly, I give myself time to think. “What do the visions mean?” I finally ask him.

  Tukkita pokes the fire and narrows his eyes as sparks fly around him. “It has been decided that rather than take your soche seche tente, you will marry and have a son.”

  I wait for him to continue, but instead, he walks to the door and motions me out.

  Not moving, I beg him to tell me more. “Tukkita?” I plead.

  Still silent, he points a finger back toward the village. Does he know I didn’t tell him the truth about what I saw?

  Sighing, I do as he asks, but stop in front of him. Keeping my voice steady, I ask, “When will I marry?”

  “Tomorrow, on your thirteenth birthday. Instead of meeting your father, you will join lives.”

  “And the girl?” I ask. “Who’s the girl?”

  He cocks his head as if listening to something in the wind. Finally, he nods and gives me a small smile. “Maroma. Your future wife is Maroma.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  TIRIO

  12 Years, 364 Days

  The Amazon

  Going against my sixth-sense instinct is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s like I’m drowning, but instead of swimming up toward air, I make myself swim deeper toward the darkness. It feels wrong, and yet I keep doing it. I shut off my brain, shut off my senses, and go.

  When the sun comes up, I realize I’m halfway done. By this time tomorrow, I have to be in the village. Excitement pumps through me, mixed with a little worry. So far I’ve been able to do everything without my father’s help, but that might have forced me to take a harder way. I think I can make it, but can I make it in time?

  I stop to drink from a water vine, then continue running. The monkeys and parakeets quiet as I approach and then screech after me like angry school crossing guards. I continue using my five senses to search for signs of my tribe—footprints, the smells of food or fire, the sounds of humans. The Good Gods have not sent me any more signals, so I just keep running and assume they will help if I need it.

  My father keeps trying to communicate. Each time I pause, he pleads with me to listen. The more he pushes, the more I pull back. But he refuses to give up.

  The rest of the morning we battle. A hunch from him pulls me to a trail on the left. I head right. He calls after me, telling me there will be fruit to eat up ahead, but I ignore him and stay on the path I’m on. There’s more than one way to my village. Finally, I’m the one with the power.

  By midafternoon, the rain has stopped and the sun pushes through the dense leaves to celebrate with me. I stop and drink again. Without the rain, the mosquitoes swarm me. I swat at them, but they won’t leave. Each one buzzes with a question: Why is it so important to him that I return? What if he’s dying? What if he’s the chief of the tribe and I’m his only son? Who was the funeral for? Is Maha okay? What if she never had any other males?

  I reach up and grab a chu-chu nut from a tree behind me. I don’t want to talk to him, but I want to know how she is doing. I crack the nut and chew in frustration, then scream at the sky. A family of spider monkeys stares at me like I’m the newest attraction at the circus. Confusion Boy. And maybe I am. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and watch him beat his head against the trees.

  Finally, I decide to end my silence with my father—not to ask for help, just to find out about Maha. How is she? I ask him. Is she okay? I wait for a response. Please, just tell me if she’s okay.

  My father doesn’t answer. Why should he? I have been ignoring him for the past day and a half. What if he put these doubts in my mind? I can’t even trust my thoughts anymore. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.

  The sun is setting and I shudder as my sweat dries to a chill. It will be dark soon, and suddenly not having a plan doesn’t seem like the wonderful idea it was a couple of hours ago—especially now that my foot is aching too. The first twinges of pain started this morning, but I was able to ignore them. Now, after hours of no rest and no orthotic, my foot is letting me know it’s not happy.

  YOU ARE IN PAIN. IS IT YOUR FOOT?

  No, my foot is fine…better than fine…fantastic.

  YOU MUST TRUST ME. PLEASE LISTEN TO WHAT I AM TELLING YOU.

  Why? I ask him. Why should I listen to you?

  I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ARE ANGRY, BUT WE HAVE TO WORK TOGETHER. WE ARE CLOSE,
BUT THERE IS NOT MUCH TIME.

  What do you mean there isn’t much time? Is something wrong with Maha?

  Suddenly, the hairs on my neck stand up at familiar attention. It can’t be, but it is. A low growl. The jaguar is back. Not the female, but the black one. I hear him behind me. I smell his breath. I feel his eyes focusing on the pulsing vein on the side of my neck. The pieces of chu-chu nut stick in my throat. I don’t know what else to do…so I run. The cat follows, close enough that I know he’s there, but far enough to make me think I have a chance.

  COME HOME. LISTEN TO ME, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

  Forget it. But even as I think it, I find myself obeying him. The forest has gotten dark, the cat is still behind me, and the jungle crowds me on either side. I’m running for my life. I don’t want to die, I think as I race farther into the depths of the jungle.

  YOU WON’T. He steers me like a car—left, left, and then right. My five senses are on alert. I feel like I do with my soccer team when we’re on a roll, how we know each other so well that we can get a ball down the field effortlessly with only a few nods and eye gestures. Nobody ever brags about those moments after they happen, but we all know how special they are. As I run now, with my father guiding me, I feel that same magic. We’re on the same team and we’re both trying to get the same ball to the same goal. Me. Home. I can’t say no to that.

  The cat screams, and my father encourages me. FASTER; HE IS VERY CLOSE. YOU MUST MOVE FASTER.

  I speed up, but my right foot suddenly spasms. I cry out. This can’t be happening, not now; not after I’ve come so far. I clench my jaw and favor my left foot.

  Ignore the pain, I think.

  TIRIO, YOU MUST PUSH YOURSELF.

  I do. I push myself harder than in any soccer game or any physical therapy session, but after another half hour, the throbbing has spread from my foot to my hip.